


and when we’re in the dark, it echoes in your heart

by blackfyre



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Future AU, king jon - queen sansa au, rhaegar lyanna equals jon applies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 08:52:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackfyre/pseuds/blackfyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After several years of peaceful rule on the Iron Throne, Sansa begins to feel the pressure to have an heir. Lack of communication complicates her marriage until she finally speaks to Jon, openly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and when we’re in the dark, it echoes in your heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fauxkaren](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=fauxkaren).



> Originally posted to my [tumblr](http://eliamartell.tumblr.com/post/21304054207/and-when-were-in-the-dark-it-echoes-in-your-heart) over a year ago. Written for an asoiaf kink meme with the prompt: "Jon/Sansa, making heirs."

_Two years and no heirs_ , they whisper and it is not the hushed and quick whispers from the first year, but a whisper that carries across the room, cutting through her flimsy shield of _soon_ and dreams of a baby in her arms, bundled and swathed in black and red and grey and white, who looks like Robb or Brandon or Rickon or Arya or Father or Mother.

Varys brings her the whispers, carefully inked out on parchment, delicate penmanship revealing the speakers but Sansa does not need to see the names, not when the whispers are rampant and everyone in court and the kingdom is thinking it. As she dismissed Varys and wandered back to her chambers, a few ladies from court trailing after her, Sansa’s mind isn’t a whirl but a singular focus on a lesson once imparted to her by Septa Mordane.

“Every wife has duties,” the septa said, hands softly coaxing Sansa’s to properly hold a needle, “a primary duty is keeping the household. But the most important is giving your lord husband an heir. That is why lords marry. They must have sons to carry on after them.”

Sansa had nodded, her little hands successfully navigating the needle through the fabric. “What if I have girls?” she asked, sucking on the inside of her cheek, thinking of Jeyne Poole’s mother, who had her third girl just two moons ago. Her father was only a steward, but it made her think of ladies with three daughters.

Septa Mordane had smoothed back a loose curl from Sansa’s shoulder, “I should not worry about that, Lady Sansa. Your lady mother has two sons already. And daughters may inherit their father’s lordship and land.”

The lords who visit court may like her, appreciate her skill at smoothing their fears, their concerns, she reinforces the idea that Jon’s throne is secure, holds that thought high in her heart until their eyes flicker low across her belly. _It will never be secure until he has heirs_ , and the thought burns.

Jon returns that night from a long visit through the westerlands and riverlands, shoring up support among the lords. The trip had taken two months and an expense but it would be worth it, for showing the lords and the people that their King was alive and well, to assure them that he held the Iron Throne.

She greets him in the Holdfast’s courtyard, a curtsey and kiss upon his cheek. The dinner is strained, the court’s lords and ladies fawning over their king’s return, spinning new petitions as the courses come and go and Sansa departs as the plates are cleared, wanting the comforts of her own chambers, and the silence that comes with it.

Jon comes to her later that night, shedding his clothes with a grimace. He blows out the candle before spreading out on the bed next to her and Sansa pushes at the annoyance, at his hesitance to embrace her fully. They have known the truth of his birth for years, three at her count, and they were never siblings in the sense that Jon and Arya were. But still he hesitates and his visits to her bedchamber too infrequent for her.

Jon awkwardly fumbled at the straps of her nightgown before Sansa lifts it over her head. Sansa brings Jon’s head down to hers, kissing him and gently biting on his lower lip. Jon moans softly into her mouth, his calloused hand running through her hair, tangling and pulling at the knotted curls and she hisses from the slight pain.

The whispers are present even in their bedchamber, it seems.

Their lovemaking that night is slow and Sansa sweeps away _ordinary_ because it seems cruel to categorize it as that and Jon departs after he thinks she’s fallen asleep. Instead, Sansa turns over and over on her side, thinking. Petyr’s voice comes to her and she shudders and usually would push it away but despite everything, he taught her to play the game, to become a player, and the hush of listen sends shivers down her bones.

Sansa goes into Jon’s solar the next day, dismissing the Kingsguard at the door with a nod. The Kingsguard do not wander far – only to the end of the hall – but it is more space and privacy than they ordinarily receive. She slides in the half-open door and closes it with a soft click. Jon is bent over paperwork and letters, ink and quills scattered over the desk.

“Jon,” she says, and she says his name without a whisper or a softening of her voice. “I want a child.”

His head jolts up and oh, he is surprised. She takes small steps to the desk, “And the kingdom needs an heir. Jon – I am not – “ she stumbles, words faltering, struggling to convey that she is not disgusted by their marriage, that she wanted this marriage, that even though she did not wish to be queen, she accepted it because Jon would put the crown upon her head.

“I do not wish to force you – “ Jon rushes out, cheeks turning a slight pink, “I know I wasn’t your first choice of a husband… gods, Sansa, you were my sister. And I – “ he turns away from her, focusing on the papers, clenching and unclenching his burned right hand.

“Jon,” she reaches the side of his chair and softly tilts his chin, his eyes to meet hers, “I didn’t want to marry anyone else except you. You are my cousin and – “ she looks out the window, at the sunlight glistening off the water, “I think I failed you as a sister. And I do not want to fail you as a wife.”

It is more words than she’s ever spoken to Jon on the subject of their marriage because Jon always fumbled with words and Sansa learned that in this city, you kept true words close to your heart. But he is her husband and her king and her cousin and Sansa wants more than that and she feels childish and naïve for wanting to feel like she did when she listened to songs long ago.

Jon reaches up, touching her bared neck, the tendrils spilling loose from her hairbun. “You could never fail – “

Sansa interrupts him, “I don’t feel guilty. Do you?” She needed to know, she realized. Did he truly regret this?

He sits back in his seat, hand falling to his side, mouth moving silently, as if trying to speak and the silence endures and rolls over her and the slight breeze from the window cools the sweat on her skin, and goosebumps break out with he does, he does and she turns to leave, to recollect herself.

There is a rush of movement behind her and a warm hand encloses on her arm, turning her to face him. His grip is tight but not squeezing and Jon breathes heavily, air puffing on her neck. “I feel – I didn’t let you have Winterfell. Become its own lady. And sometimes I wonder if Father would have wanted this –“ Jon gestured to the brick, to the window, to the crown lying on the stack of books, to everything, “for us. For you.”

Understanding breaks like waves on rocks and Sansa knows, oh she knows Jon’s heart that cries for Winterfell, that yearns for the North and the brisk icy air, the pain of Father never leaving their hearts, a bloody stain on the Sept of Baelor, the whispers of wind on the weirwood leaves.

“Father would have wanted someone great for me,” she reaches up to brush his curls out of his eyes, “someone brave and kind and gentle and you are those, Jon. And you are the King. We could go back to the North, leave this all for others to claw at.” She is speaking of dreams but how the dreams call to her, how she envies the ease of dreaming this possibility. Of running away to the North, sealing themselves within the walls of Winterfell. _The King and Queen of Winter_ and a shiver runs down her spine as Jon leans down to meet her lips.

This kiss is not like the others they have shared – this one is frantic, desperate, teeth clinking together, and Sansa inhales sharply as Jon’s tongue pushes forward, meets her, and her hands are twisted up in his doublet, tugging him closer, pressing him against her chest. One of his hands is in her hair, pulling and the pins tumble out one by one and another hand rests on the small of her back, and Jon is stepping backwards and Sansa with him, until he turns around and the back of her legs hit the desk.

She does not hesitate. Sansa sits on the edge, a hand sweeping backwards to knock loose papers and quills off the desk as Jon struggles to push her skirts up, the different layers and soft fabrics catching on his sweaty and calloused palms. Sansa leans forward, unbuttoning the doublet and revealing a simple linen tunic she has made for him underneath. That too joins the doublet on the floor and her nimble fingers unlace him and hold the length of him.

Jon bites at the crook of her neck as she strokes him, a thumb spreading the precum down his shaft. His hand steadies her at the waist and he begins to chant her name, “Sansa, Sansa,” as he undoes the ties of her smallclothes.

Jon is warm against her touch and it doesn’t seem fair that she still has clothes to shed and directs his hand to the laces on the front of her bodice and the silk pushes away without a sound and Sansa shrugs out of the sleeves, the dress still bunched around her waist. Jon cups her breast, a thumb teasing her nipple hard and he bends his mouth to it, sucking gently. Sansa threads her fingers through his curls, pulling a little, _see how he likes it_ and she is borne backwards to lie fully on the desk, her legs hooking around Jon’s hips.

Jon pulls her closer to the edge, leaning over her, peppering her throat with kisses before settling on sucking and biting her earlobe. With a groan, he pushes into her and the first thrust slams Sansa forward on the desk, and her nails bit at his arm as she holds on. With her other hand, she tugs harder at his hair, grinning at his pleasured hiss and the corresponding neck bite she receives.

The pace is fast, fast, and each thrust sways the desk. The wood is hard and unyielding against her back. A hand runs down from her throat, the middle of her breasts, pushing the skirts higher across her stomach, until the hand reaches their juncture and presses down on her nub. Sansa jolts, nails raking down Jon’s arm, and she wants him closer, wants all of him, in her, near her, and she’s pulling him closer, nails digging into his back. It’s all scrambling for purchase and the thrusts and his chants are filling the solar. The lazy circles Jon started around her clit are growing in pace, faster and faster, alternating circles and pressure, and it starts to build, her muscles are clenching, and a high-pitched gasp escapes her lips.

She climaxes with a choking cry, panting hard into Jon’s ear and she can feel his smile against her neck. He hitches her leg higher , thrusting harder and deeper, and none of their couplings has ever been like this, has ever been here, and Jon comes with her name on his lips, her hair in his grasp, and he rests his head on her chest for a moment, breathing.

They lay there, hearts thumping and breaths shaking, and she gives soft kisses to his neck, sucking gently at his pulse point. Jon pushes off of her and the cool wind hits her thighs, warm with his seed, and he helps to pull her skirts back down and relaces her bodice with deft fingers. The papers are strewn amongst the rushes, the floor soaking in the spilled ink, and they cannot stop smiling as they meet each other’s eyes.

As Jon shrugs back into his tunic, back turned to her, she sees the marks her nails left, and goes to him. Her arms encircle his waist as she rests her head against his back. “I want a child, Jon. _I want yours_.”

Jon turns slowly to face her, hands holding her close. He rests his forehead on hers, “I – “ he halts and speaks softer, holding her as if she might shatter under her grasp, as if this morning was an illusion, ice melting under the heat of his gaze, “I want to hold one in my arms.”

She leans back so to meet his eyes, “And if I only have girls?”

He searches her face for a moment before smiling, “Then she’ll rule the lot of them.”

Later that night, he comes to her again and it is like breathing – the ease of it, the comfort of it, how they’ve shed the hesitance and the remains of guilt. She does not come that night, but Sansa doesn’t mind, not when she grips Jon close to her, falling asleep next to the sounds him breathing and staying.

There are no secrets at court and it is soon buzzing that the King is visiting the Queen every night in her bedchambers. Anticipation curls with the humidity in the summer court and Sansa delays their guessing games by introducing the new Essosi fashion of high-waisted gowns to the court, smiling at her play.

Jon finds out (she does not tell him, not yet, not when she is not sure) when she suffers morning sickness and he pulls her hair back gently, stroking her back, and Sansa weeps because of it. He still visits her every night and his lovemaking becomes gentler only by a little and she has to push back at him, grasp him, direct him the way she favors, the way she finds pleasure.

He is out hawking and hunting the first time the child kicks and it nearly sends Sansa in a panic until she reminds Mother, the way she was with Bran and Rickon and how she felt the tiny kicks before their birth. She carries that smile all day and withdraws to her inner chambers for a private supper. The pregnancy has seemed to set her hair on fire; it shines brightly with each brush stroke and is thicker than it has ever been and her husband cannot seem to resist himself from playing with the strands, untangling the curls softly.

At the end, Jon is cautioned to stay away from her bed and Sansa dismisses it with a grin, “You are welcome to share my bed, my love, just not _me_ ,” and she laughs at the flicker of shock across his face at her bawdiness. He takes to massaging her sore back and eventually Sansa retires from the court, remaining in her chambers to await the birth.

She had once expected to marry with love but out of duty – and then marriage out of fear, out of manipulation, out of men’s desire for her claim, their desire to control the North and Winterfell with one ceremony. She had long put love and marriage as exclusive to each other, that love was reserved for children, that her father and lady mother were a rarity.

And now she does not believe or expect those things. Happiness becomes her crown and love her lot.


End file.
